Dirk Robertson:	SHOTS' NY Correspondent
Number:	Number 2 (April 2006)

   New York is a city which swings. At present, it is from one weather type to another. Not surprising, as none of the world appears immune to the rather obvious effects of global warming. I caught the end of Tartan Week celebrated by a parade up Sixth Avenue of pipe bands and dancing girls. The drum majors, for some inexplicable reason, all looked like that racing pundit, John something or another who was on Big Brother. I can never get his second name right. The heavens opened and rain squirted down on everything Tartan. It was a shame as people had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to organise the march. There was no sign of Sir Sean. Golf in the Bahamas or rain drenched tarmac and tartan? That's a hard one.

I travelled to the parade on the Number One train heading for South Ferry. That used to stop at the station which served the World Trade Centre. My thoughts wandered to that clear blue day when all hell broke loose on Lower Manhattan. They were snapped back to the here and now. Someone was speaking to me. The words did not register at first, then they sunk in.
"I'm going to kill you." The speaker was very large, hairy, smelly and completely clothed in black bin liners held together by thin strands of twine. He had a bucket on his head with a piece cut out so there was no mistaking the piercing eyes glaring at me.
"Then I'm going to eat you." He added. This was not getting any better. I looked around the carriage for moral support. What I got was the sudden dropping of heads. No-one wanted to know. I suspected they were secretly relieved that if I was the object of bucket man's attention then they, at least, were not.
He wasn't finished
"Then I shall scatter what is left of you to the twelve winds."
"Can you name them all?" The voice was mine. It sounded a lot more confident than I actually felt.
"Name what?" His voice was edgy. The irritation was very clear.
"The winds." I answered quietly. He chewed his thumb through the hole in the bucket, deep in thought.
"The Pacific Jet Stream." He answered.
"That's only one." I said. I licked my lips. They were very dry. The train had come to a halt at Columbus Circle. The doors slid open. He looked me straight in the eye then without warning, leapt onto the platform.
"Once I know the others…I will find you." The doors hissed shut. I can't remember the last time I was so relieved. At least the chances of him seeing me again in a city this size, are nil. The heads stayed bowed.

I was sent a book to review. It is fantastic. Just what the doctored ordered. 515 pages coming in at over thirty dollars. I really appreciate it. It is just the right size. My floor has a dip in it which means my bed was at a strange angle. Not any more. The book has done the trick. Just the correct thickness to straighten it up. I sleep like a baby now. Review it? No, I don't think so. Simply put, it was the biggest load of kak I seen in a long time. The author will remain nameless as I am not that cruel. I did offer to interview the "writer" on the basis that I thought they sucked but not surprisingly the publicist informed me that they did not want to do it. Probably too busy working on their next masterpiece. I hope it is the same length and I get to see it. The fridge has a every annoying lilt to it.

The trial of the former New York Police Detectives came to an end. Stephen Carracappa and Louis Eppolito were charged with being involved in eight murders, on behalf of the mob, over a period of years.They have been found guilty and face life imprisonment. Anthony "Gaspipe" Gasso offered them help from his cell where he is serving a life sentence for killing more than thirty people. He wrote a letter saying that the two ex-cops were not involved in some of the murders. There is nothing funny about any of this but I must admit I found it hard to suppress a chuckle. "Some"? What use is that? And why do people faced with such serious charges demonstrate electrifyingly poor choices when it comes to character witnesses? It reminds me of a gangster in London who was on a charge for smuggling and distributing cocaine. He was really optimistic when a "former" celebrity gangster came forward and said "Nah, not him, mate. Not cocaine. He's a diamond geezer, He's as good as gold." The court were not impressed. I think he got twelve years, if my memory serves me right. It might even have been more.

The papers here have been full of the antics of one of the defence lawyers in the coppers gone bad case. He has managed to touch upon some of the most bizarre topics in his unsuccessful attempt to get his client off. To name but a few, they are "The Bridge on the River Kwai", Crazy Horse; the Oglala Sioux warrior chief, Emile Zola, The Rev. Dr. Martin Luthor King Jr., the Brooklyn Bridge, the Acela Train* and the soullessness of television. None of it worked.
All of this criminal stuff gave me an appetite so I bought some chicken, in a bun. I didn't eat it. Seems it contains the king of poisons - Arsenic. I won't bore you with the details, it is a government approved additive in chicken feed in the U.S. Higher levels are now being detected. Now retailers are selling chickens which are supposed to be free of it. I am not sure about giving a chicken the benefit of the doubt. The papers have been filing less than encouraging reports about the chickens on sale from some of the fast food players. I don't care if the newspapers here have named them. I am not going to repeat them. I am a chicken, not an idiot, but for now arsenic free, at least.

When I am not writing, I play music in the street. Mainly at 42nd street and Second Avenue. New Yorkers like the blues, particularly the way I play them. I have been invited to play for the commuters at Grand Central Station next month. Vanderbilt Hall. A big honour, so one balmy night I stop off in a deserted wasteland near the Hudson to play for the homeless people who make up a sizeable community there. They are very welcoming as I tune up and play a few old country blues numbers. I pause for a moment. An old man stumbles up to one of the people who has been listening to me play.
"Hey, man, there's a dude back there in the woods who wants to know the names of the winds. Do you know any?"
I break a string, deliberately, so the playing must stop. I quickly pack my instrument away and retreat to Amsterdam Avenue. I am sweating heavily. I stop to look around. No-one is following me. That night, for the first time since I came here, I double lock the door.

 
**The name for the train service which, amongst other routes, runs from New York to Boston. The equivalent in the U.K. is, I think, The Gibbon or maybe it is The Mallard. I think I prefer the Acela.